


love in decay

by puckishly



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, The Phantom of the Opera
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Inspired by Corpse Bride (2005), Minor Violence, all in all this is just insanity, christine is victor, erik is the corpse bridegroom, i rewatched it and was Possessed so like here we are, idk how to use tags tbh, idk! what this is!, raoul is victoria, uhhhh corpse bride au fic, victorian gothic vibes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24664114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puckishly/pseuds/puckishly
Summary: “With this ring,” Christine says, shawl falling from her shoulders when she sets the bouquet on an unmarked grave, “With this ring I ask you to be mine!”The wind stops. The forest stills. All is desperately, eerily calm.Something cold and wet andskeletalcaresses the inside of her left ankle, and Christineshrieks.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34





	love in decay

**Author's Note:**

> first fic i've written in years lmao be gentle!!

“No, no, _no_! ” 

Christine stills in her meager attempts to recite her vows, biting her tongue as she flushes fiercely in embarrassment. The priest is astonishingly red in the face, clearly exasperated by her lack of preparedness. She pales under the scrutiny, face hot.

The Vicomte de Chagny manages an awkward chuckle. “She is just nervous, Father. I know _I_ am.”

The priest turns, his darkened gaze swiveling upon the younger man. He looks fit to burst from frustration.

“This is the _twelfth_ time she has forgotten!” Father Andrew cried, indignant. Alas, but he reigns himself in! He was, after all, a man of God. Wrath was a terrible sin. “Twelve times you have forgotten your vows, Christine.”

The Viscount de Chagny interjects from where he is seated within the pews. “I _told_ you she wasn’t ready, Raoul.” He sniffs, with his ever-present air of arrogance.

Meg Giry instantly screws her face up, turning to him, looking ready to pounce. La Sorelli rests a gentle hand upon her shoulder.

“I’m sure she’ll get it this time,” La Sorelli says, giving her patron a pointed glare. Phillippe withers beneath his lover’s gaze.

Father Andrew clears his throat. “From the beginning _,_ ” he says gravely, and with great reluctance to do so.

Christine fidgets, sharing a furtive glance with her fiancé. How they both wished this would end!

“Forgive me, Father,” She manages through twisted tongue, “I know it, I am sure of that! Only I…” Faltering, she lowers her eyes to the floor of the cathedral. How different could this possibly be from memorizing lines? The role was something she’d been _praying_ for.

Father Andrew harrumphs his disapproval, stopping any hope of further explaining herself. Her fingers wring cruelly together in her distress.

He addresses her again, all the more stern. “From the _beginning_.”

Raoul, saint as he was, reached for Christine’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. She manages a smile and is able to face the priest once more. 

Christine draws a breath and begins anew. “With this hand, I will lift your sorrows. Your cup will never empty, for I will… I will…”

She grows frustrated with herself in mere moments, sputtering as she searches for the words. “I _will_ —”

Father Andrew’s ire instantaneously flared again. _“Enough!_ ” He booms from behind the altar, slamming his hands down with a start. Christine nearly jumps out of her skin, nails digging crescents into her clenched palms.

“Do you even _want_ to get married, _mademoiselle_?”

Christine gulps, helplessly floundering. Of course she did! Did they not know this was grating on her nerves? Did they not know how she was kept up at night, haunted? Her love for Raoul burns. The shame of her station burns brighter.

The Viscount de Chagny made his disapproval of the pair quite clear. An actress, a singer, a mere _childhood sweetheart_ had no business marrying the vicomte. Tears flood her eyes, endlessly blue and forlorn. 

“Yes, father, I do.” 

Father Andrew regards her with little pity. She chokes down a sob. How she wished her nerves weren’t quite so frayed! With a resigned sigh, the priest turns to the vicomte.

“Return on the morrow, the both of you. I’ll not have you make fools of yourselves within the house of God.”

Raoul, thankfully, clasps his hand with Christine’s once more. He gives the priest a stiff smile in an attempt to placate him.

“Of course,” Raoul says, and Christine stamps down her own barely stifled rage. The lengths of which they had to go to prove their love! Was it not enough that they did so to one another?

* * *

“I’m sorry,” She says as she takes her seat across from Raoul, he carefully doling out a steaming cup of tea for her.

The cup and saucer clink as he gently places it, ever the gentleman. His face remains impassive if only for a moment. They are, blissfully, alone for the moment. Meg had sauntered off with Sorelli, and Phillippe had given the couple some reprieve in retiring to his chambers. Their only accompaniment were the servants bustling in and out, taking care of their duties.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Raoul says finally, taking a cup for his own and adding a splash of cream. He stirs, quiet for a moment as he settles. Christine’s lower lip wobbles. 

“I cannot wait for our wedding day, Raoul, you must know that! Only I… I find myself unable to say the words. I want to, desperately,” She confesses.

“I know,” He says, ever as understanding, ever as patient. He reaches for her hand once more and she concedes, tightly lacing her fingers within his across the small expanse of the table.

She stifles a cry from the back of her throat. How defeated she was, how hopeless! 

“I’ll practice, I promise. I will do this right. I do love you so, Raoul…” 

He reaches, lifting the back of her hand to his mouth, gently placing a kiss there.

“I love you too, Christine,” He says reassuringly, his eyes twinkling. “I know you can do it. You always have a way with your words.”

Christine releases a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding, relieved. Her fingers flex in his, face warming. She counts her blessings even now.

* * *

Christine’s shawl slides down her shoulders, the simple knitted garment bringing comfort as she tightly clutches her rosary. The air is light upon her cheeks, face flushed in the growing darkness. The sun paints the sky brilliantly as it sets, the trees looming overhead as branches and leaves crunch under foot. The autumn chill does little to deter her.

“With this hand,” She recites, golden curls bouncing about her shoulders as she makes the trek deeper within the solace of the woods, “I will lift your sorrows. I will— No, _no_!”

Christine could practically _cry_ out of frustration at herself, tears burning the backs of her eyes. She huffs as she marches further, making her way to her father’s grave.

“Oh, papa,” She says to herself, shuddering from the sudden drop in temperature and shrugging more deeply into her shawl, “I wish you were still here.” 

Grayed headstones littered the packed soil, wilted flowers and weeds every which way, as far as she could see. Gustave Daaé was buried under a tree that wept with its branches. She settles on the ground beside him, somber.

“Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…”

She has no trouble remembering her prayers, skirts splayed about her. Leaves tangle within her hair, the wind soft as a kiss. Christine continues, emboldened by the silence of the forest. It was no different than a stage.

Her mouth presses reverently to his headstone, and she rises, brushing the dirt away from her day dress. “I miss you so, Papa. Perhaps you can help me remember my vows?”

She gets no reply. The wind picks up. Christine pockets her rosary, simple wooden beads to which she clung to like a lifeline. The flowers at her feet suddenly look quite appealing, and out of sheer childish impulse, she begins to pick them.

“With this hand, I will lift your sorrows,” She says quietly, bunching the half-dead blooms into her left hand, while her right reached and grabbed for them. “Your cup will—”

Christine pauses, and shakes her head. She continues picking.

“You cup will never be empty, for… for I will be your wine,” She manages, growing bolder now as the words leave her lips with fervor. The moon imposes its brightness upon her. Her bouquet grows large enough to properly hold in front of her, now.

“With this candle,” She gestures with the flowers, “I will light your way into darkness.” Strengthened by her sudden grasp of the words, she decides to finish with a flourish. 

“With this ring,” Christine says, shawl falling from her shoulders when she sets the bouquet on an unmarked grave, “With this ring I ask you to be mine!”

The wind stops. The forest stills. All is desperately, eerily calm.

Something cold and wet and _skeletal_ caresses the inside of her left ankle, and Christine _shrieks_. 

In her haste to get away, she trips over herself; landing squarely on her bottom she watches in wide-eyed horror as two hands claw away at the recently disturbed soil, scrabbling for purchase, digging itself out. And then there’s the _voice_.

It’s calling. It’s calling to _her_ , she realizes, and practically shrieks all over again. She skitters backwards on hands and knees, terrified as she watches as the corpse unearths itself. 

Her shawl and prayer beads are all but forgotten; she kicks and screams at the clutching hands, filthy with dirt and rot, one still firmly clutched to her ankle while the other grasps the hems of her skirts. Its voice is garbled; choking and spitting up dirt, wrestling itself out of its too-shallow grave. _A man_ , Christine realizes with sudden dread. A man in a _mask._

He crawls forth on hands and knees, begging, beseeching, asking her to be his, his, his! His living bride who has come at last! His angel! His love! _His_ —!

Christine’s cries do not still, not even for a moment; she jerks herself free, and she can hear the _rip_ of sinew and bone, those terrible fingers still in a vice grip even as she stumbles through the woods.

He calls for her again, “My angel,” He says, shuddering form able to come to a lowly drag out of his resting place, “My _love_! Come back to me!”

She trips over a log and the hand that had still been clutching to her suddenly goes flying. Christine picks herself back up, chest heaving against the confines of her corset, heart threatening to explode from within her chest. She only hoped God could hear her pleas. 

Tree branches grab at her just as he had. Each time she falls she dirties her skirts.

She runs. She runs deeper into the woods; bobbing and weaving through other graves, heels kicking up the packed earth. She’s lost him, she thinks, as she makes her way to the bridge. She looks over the edge of the railing to steel a glance at her own reflection. Why, she looked like she’d seen — Well, a _ghost_! 

Christine attempts to steel herself, closing her eyes. Deathly fingers bite into her wrist and she can only gasp in horror.

“ _There_ you are, darling!” He says, as if he’s known her all along. This corpse. This dead man walking. This unholy creature. This— This _thing_ —!

He advances upon her then, thumb brushing against the back of her hand. She swears that he’s _smiling_! 

“You have nothing to fear, angel! I will protect you,” The corpse says, as if that’s meant to reassure her.

He’s rotting. His skin is sunken and grayed, his hair thinning into black patches on his scalp that cling for dear life. And he— He is dressed for his _wedding_ , Christine realizes. His waistcoat and cravat are dirtied. He raises the back of her hand to his decomposing lips, and the world sways beneath her feet dizzyingly. Her stomach gives a terrible _lurch_.

His touch is gentler, this time, but it makes her skin crawl no less. It was death that was touching her! It was a corpse that she had awoken!

When he speaks, all she can smell is decay and wet soil. Perhaps he was a man at some point. He certainly was not anymore.

His request is simple, really. Five words. Five syllables. Letters strung together so plainly. And yet…

“May I kiss the bride?”

Christine faints.

**Author's Note:**

> questions, comments, concerns, critiques? lemme know!! c: go ham!!


End file.
